Where I want to be right now

Sidin Vadukut has a lovely piece on Much Wenlock in today’s Mint Lounge.

Much Wenlock is quite possibly the most becoming little town in all of Great Britain. In fact, I don’t think I’ve been to a more charming place in the whole world. It is the kind of instantly likeable little place—like Amsterdam, Aix-en-Provence, St Andrews or Braemar up in the Scottish Highlands—where, by the end of your first walk about town, you’re already wondering, whimsically, how much a two-bedroom, semi-detached by the canal or the river or the ruined abbey is going to cost.

I know exactly what he means – ten minutes into Bruges, I was dreaming of a home there and by the end of the hour, the husband and I had decided exactly which house we were going to buy (right by the canal, a three minute walk from the Church of Our Lady, if you are interested. That way I figured I could drop by the church daily to look at the beautiful Michelangelo Madonna and Child statue. And oh, five minutes to the chocolate shops). And then we looked at each other and burst out laughing. A house in Europe, yes, right. Well, it was fun while it lasted.

Anyway. Bruges is what I have been thinking of these last few days when I have been somewhat down and out. That is where I’d rather be right now…

By the canals

Life in the slow lane

Time moves very slowly in Provence. It is this part of the world that J.B. Priestley had in mind when he declared, “A good holiday is one that is spent among people whose notions of time are vaguer than yours.” This is not to say that Provençals never take the concept of time seriously. Come lunch hour and all the outdoor cafés fill up rapidly with locals even before the poor tourist has finished weighing his options. The point is: take it easy when you are in Provence and savour (or cultivate) that unfamiliar feeling that you have all the time in the world. It will help you deal with the locals, bless their friendly hearts.

Even before I start writing about Provence, the editor asks me to steer clear of Peter Mayle. But it is hard to write about Provence without a mention of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. The man has a lot to answer for, certainly for having brought the whole world rushing to once-sleepy Provence with his books on the good life of this region. They came from everywhere in coachloads to get away from it all, thereby bringing it all with them. Provence has, thankfully, survived it and—in a most un-Frenchlike manner—even made good business out of it.

Driving is the best—and perhaps the only—way to get around the region. Though guidebooks insist that there are buses, I saw none in my time there. When you are headed to Provence, don’t make that packed itinerary with a list of sightseeing options. For one, there are none; Provence itself is one large sight to see. Ignore the French Riviera in the deep south, the beaches where the rich and famous frolic (save that for a dreary winter) and instead head for the villages in the heart of this region.

Once here, zoom in on what is the prettiest part, along the Luberon mountains. Olive gardens and in season, lavender fields, hilltop villages, old churches, narrow winding roads and people who leave you to yourself for the most part. There’s the beautiful light made famous by Van Gogh, Renoir and Cézanne. And those weekly markets. It can be hard to make choices since the countryside is littered with attractive villages, all of them equally enticing. Just hire the car, pick up a map and begin your drive.

The best place to begin is Avignon by the Rhone river, a Unesco world heritage site. Avignon is technically a town but the heart of the walled city is still small enough to be explored on foot. This town became home to the Pope sometime in the fourteenth century and stayed that way for the next hundred years for succeeding popes. So, the main attraction for most visitors remains the Palais Des Papes. The large square in front of the palace is where buskers perform during season, with small souvenir stalls spread in the lanes around it. Wander around the small lanes of the town to be unfailingly surprised: I found a shop called Patchouli peddling what I can only call Indian Exotica and a quaint bookshop named after Shakespeare.

Even if you are not in Avignon on a market day, just head to Les Halles, the indoor fresh-food hall in the centre of town. Pick up some salad, cheese, bread and pasta and head to Pont D’Avignon, the broken Roman bridge over the Rhone, and have yourself a great picnic lunch by its banks.

If, like me, you grew up reading Asterix comics, you probably think the Romans spent all their time saying Ave! to Caesar and having fabulous orgies. Apparently they did a little bit more, like building picturesque (and extremely useful) bridges through the countryside. Case in point: the Pont du Gard, another world heritage spot, just over twenty-four kilometres west. This is Roman countryside, with the most famous of the remains in Arles, Nîmes and Orange.

Another day, head east towards what is classic Provence—the villages among the valleys and hills of the Vaucluse (administrative) department.

Gordes is pre-eminent among the beautiful villages of this region. And, perched on top of the Vaucluse plateau, Gordes knows this and preens prettily from its lofty height. Several movie stars and chic Parisians certainly think so and have made their homes here. The locals hold them in disdain and refuse to acknowledge these painters and potters. A large part of the village is a network of narrow alleys lined with shops on either side. Take time to explore the tenth-century château and chapel inside the village. Also visit the twelfth-century Senanque Abbey just outside Gordes. Cistercian monks still live there, producing honey and liqueurs when they’re not busy with their devotion.

From Gordes, drive northeast towards Roussillon, another must-see in the region. Roussillon means russet. And Roussillon is Provence in Technicolor, every building in one or the other shade of russet, rust, ochre, copper, auburn and salmon pink. This colour is the result of a natural pigment found in the quarries near the village. Once producing the most significant ochre deposit in the world, the quarry is now not in use and its cliffs and caves can be explored by foot. Roussillon is on the ridge of a cliff and is best seen in the evenings (so you might want to save this for the last visit of the day), as the sun begins to set and the earthy tones slowly turn golden.

Bonnieux is the next village on the circuit that I made, its great church visible from a distance even as you make your way towards it. The lower part of the village is typically Provençal, with its meandering narrow streets and arches leading into ancient buildings and seemingly secret gardens. Walk the steps leading up to the twelfth-century church, now out of use but worth the steep climb for the expansive views across the valley. The other attraction in Bonnieux is the Baker’s Museum, the Musée de la Boulangerie, a novelty even in a country where bakers reign supreme on the professional food chain.

On your way back to Avignon is Lacoste, often mentioned in the same breath as Bonnieux. Lacoste is a little village which sits looking at Bonnieux’s church on the one side and Count Marquis de Sade’s castle on the other. The castle has been bought by Pierre Cardin, who also presides over the local music and arts festival in summer.

Then there’s L’Isle sur la Sorgue. Sniff at the name, roll it slowly around your tongue and spit it out (good practice for any wine-tasting sessions you might have later). Begin your village-hopping from here the next day. It is not officially on the ‘prettiest villages’ list but the local PR machinery has made up for it by giving it the sobriquet ‘Venice of Provence’. Don’t let the cheesy name put you off. Go there and be charmed by the many canals and streams that meander all around the village.

This ‘island on the Sorgue (river)’ once had a thriving textile and paper industry, whose remains are visible in the large water wheels that line the canals. Apart from the weekly market on Sundays (one of the best and most famed in the region), the village also has over 300 permanent antique stalls. Also check at the Tourism Information Centre for current exhibitions at the Campredon Museum.

On the way to the next beautiful village lies St Rémy De Provence, pure Van Gogh country, on which more than 150 of his paintings are said to be based. Stop here if you have time or press on to Les Baux de Provence on the cliffs, which gets you back on the beautiful villages list. In the Middle Ages, the entire area was a fortress and the ruins of a castle are still to be found, with a view of the Alpilles, a limestone range across the valley. Outdoor cafés, souvenir shops, cobblestoned lanes, an old church—Les Baux ticks all the boxes.

Then again, which of the Provençal villages does not?

***
Published in the March issue of Outlook Traveller. Detailed information on travel and the local markets here

SoM tour bus

The hills are alive

In Salzburg, there are two kinds of people; those who love the movie and those who absolutely abhor it. And oh yes, there is a third type: those who make a living from it. Like the guys at Panorama Tours with whom I am all set to take a Sound of Music tour around the city and the gorgeous Austrian countryside. All this is a bit surprising considering that Austrians themselves had no idea about The Sound of Music before America and Hollywood thrust it down their throats.

The women in the bus are excited, the men slightly embarrassed, while the couple of kids from America keep fidgeting, clueless what the fuss is all about. Then the stories begin. The first is about the lady from Australia who took this tour earlier and ended up in tears while the sound track was played towards the end. It turns out she is used to watching the movie at her home it every Saturday (in the company of a bottle of the best wine) for years now and was overcome by emotion at finally seeing where the movie was actually shot. I have no such emotion but like others in the bus, I have fond memories of watching the movie as a child, and enjoying it just as much when I watch it again as an adult.

The play and then the film Sound of Music actually took a lot of liberties with the real story of Maria Von Trapp and her family. In real life, when the Von Trapps escaped the Nazi rule in Salzburg, they took a hike to the nearest train station and went to Italy. The last scenes of the film shows them getting into Switzerland, a five hour drive away; this was shot near Berchtesgaden, Germany, very close to Hitler’s Eagles Nest, so imagine the Von Trapps heading there. All this is told to me by Vincent, my tourist guide for the day, who dearly loves his mike and keeps his busload entertained through the morning.

And so he continues. Edelweiss, bless my homeland forever is not a popular Austrian folk tune (as the movie would have you believe) but was composed for Broadway by Rodgers and Hammerstein, the last project the duo worked on together before Hammerstein died. If anything, Edelweiss today is a popular Austrian beer. Young men wooing were once required to climb up the Alps to bring their love the Edelweiss flower; today they take with them a crate of chilled beer!

Through all these interesting disclosures, we are traveling through serious Sound of Music country, beginning with the Leopoldskorn Lake with the palace at the side, where scenes of the movie showing the terrace of the Captain’s home were shot. The most interesting story is however, at our next stop, at the gazebo at Hellbrunn palace. It is here that Liesl, Captain Von Trapp’s oldest daughter was on 16, going on 17, with her boyfriend, the Nazi sympathizer Rolf, a year older. The gazebo is now closed to the public, ever since, says Vincent, an 85 year-old tourist (obviously going on 17) broke her hip trying to jump from seat to seat in the manner of young Liesl.

The highlight of the tour is the drive through the Salzkammergut (Lake District) with stunning views of the Austrian countryside so well captured in the opening scenes of movie. There is a mandatory stop at Mondsee to take in the cathedral where the grand wedding scene between the Captain and Maria was shot.

On the way back to Salzburg, the sound track from the movie is played in the bus (for once, Vincent is silent) and people begin to sing along, hesitantly at first and then lustily joining in. The Sound of Music works its smooth magic, or perhaps the magic is that of the countryside but grown men in the bus begin to hum along with “these are a few of my favourite things!” And I complete this pilgrimage the next morning with a visit to the Mirabell Gardens, which I am told, also played a prominent role in the movie.

Salzburg’s other claim to fame is that of being Mozart’s birthplace. And the city does not let you forget that. There is the Mozart GeburtsHaus (where he was born), his WohnHaus (where he lived) and assorted touristy memorabilia (in less kind words, called kitsch) all the way from chocolates to pen holders and fridge magnets with his name and face on them. And of course, there are those on the main streets dressed in what they think of as Mozart costume peddling cheap tickets for classical concerts (friendly word of warning: stay away from these).

All that said, Salzburg is a city capable of charming any visitor, even without the loud signs everywhere that scream of these past glories. It is known to be one of the oldest cultural centers in what is present day Austria and is now the fourth largest city here. The Aldstadt (old state – or the city center) is known for its well-preserved Baroque architecture. The city itself was established as a UNESCO World Heritage site in 1997.

It is today a young city, its restaurants and bars buzzing in the spring air late, late into the night. The Salzach River runs through it, the bridges over it and the lanes by the side now used as spots for locals and tourists to meet and chat and watch the world pass by. On narrow Getreidegasse, the main shopping lane in Salzburg, everything is strictly old world; even the signboard for McDonalds is a graceful arch in metal and muted colours, in keeping with the tone of the area. I spend several hours here, exploring the hundreds of shops and boutiques tucked into its narrow arched by-lanes.

One evening, I trek up to the HohenSalzburg fortress that casts a watchful eye on the city at all times. The sun is setting in the distance casting golden shadows on the Salzach and the city skyline is impressive and mellow in this light. Far down, at Kapitelplatz, I can see people, little ants slowly making their way through the street stalls. The giant chessboard painted on the ground is also active, the giant pieces seeming to move of their own accord.

That instant, I can hear echoes of the sound of music from far far away.

***
Published in the South China Morning Post, March 11, 2012

The other Shakespeare bookshops

RIP George Whitman, the eccentric owner of the original Shakespeare & Co. bookshop in Paris’ Left Bank. The shop, now in its second avatar, celebrates sixty years of existence this year. And Whitman, who bought it from the original owner Sylvia Beach died last week, aged 98. I have been dying to write a story on this fabulous bookshop where I spent hours on my Paris trip – am waiting for an editor to bite buy. And I am really looking forward to writing that story. For now, just a pic.

Till then, let me tell you about the two other bookshops I spotted in Europe, named after Shakespeare. There are probably many more but these two for now. One in Prague – of all places, an English bookshop in an Eastern European country! Shakespeare in Prague – but then, I found Lennon there, so why not?

And the other, the really really charming one in Avignon in Provence – a small bookshop with what I can only call a typical French attitude. Look at the cheeky sign on the shop window. That said, the owner, who was closing for lunch, was nice enough to keep it open for ten minutes while I browsed and clicked and drooled. Go figure.

I found this in a small street somewhere in the heart of Avignon as I was wandering aimlessly one fine spring day. I probably would never be able to locate it if I were to try again. The shop also had a tiny cafe (I did try asking for a coffee but clearly, that was going too far!) and books stacked in some method-to-the-madness way that only the owner understood. In all, a lovely discovery.

The non skiers go to a ski village

One of my travel dreams is for a ski holiday sometime, somewhere – preferably in the Alps. I did manage to go to a ski resort in Austria on my Europe holiday this April. Not to ski – given that neither my husband nor I know even the basics of skiing. Actually, we didn’t even go there with the intention of seeing the ski slopes.

This is how it happened. I had read about Alpbach – that it had won prettiest village in Austria awards many times. So, there was no way I was missing it. We had hired a car in Vienna and driven down to Salzburg. One morning, we took to Alpbach, hoping to head on to Innsbruck from there. As it happened, Alpbach was so charming that Innsbruck was soon forgotten.

I would have loved to visit Alpbach in summer when the flowers are in full bloom (as pictures on the Internet told me) but winter in the village had its own charm. We walked up and down the only main road, popping into the beautiful church with its stunning stained glass windows and the small cemetery at the back and looking longingly at stylish boots in shop windows. And after that stroll, we had a quick pizza lunch and headed to the hill just outside the village. We took the ski lift up to the top and stayed there for an hour, sipping on mulled wine and coffee and barely managing to stay out of the way of serious skiers. Not to mention, freezing our butts off.

Some day, some day soon, I will learn to ski. You fabulous Austrian Alps, wait for me!

Postcards from Charles Bridge

Presenting Charles Bridge – across the river Valtva in Prague in pictures.

Any time of the day, a few thousand people are on the bridge…

If you want it to yourself, go early – really early – in the morning. Or try late at night. I froze though, taking this picture…

In the 17th century, thirty statues were placed on either side of the bridge all the way. This is one of my favourites…

More than anything else, it is the buskers, artists and vendors on the bridge which make it special…

A photo show in Paris

I happened to read about the Femmes Eternelles photography show in Paris when I visited the city earlier this April. It was a collection of 80 portraits of women from all over the world by French photographer Olivier Martel. It said the venue was the railings of the Luxembourg Gardens – I had no idea where or what the railings were. And as it happened, nor did the staff at the park.

So we walked round and round the park, trying to find the venue, very sure that someone somewhere would know about such an exhibition. And just as we walked out in dismay at not finding it, we found it. The exhibition was just where it was supposed to be – on the railings that formed the fence of the park. There were scenes of women from Tunisia and Morocco to Russia and China. And in that evening light, the photographs were stunning – the best were those which seemed to fade into or melt into the surrounding greens or deep oranges.

Here are some of my favourites from the show:

In all this, India was a disappointment – a picture of giggly girls at the Miss India contest!

The bouquinistes of Paris

The bouquinistes – outdoor booksellers – of Paris, by the side of the Seine are one of my absolute favourite things about the city (the other are the parks). There are over 200 of them now in Paris and between them, I read somewhere, offer over 300000 old and new books and magazines. Recognized by their iconic green metal boxes and grumpy expressions (oh, but that’s everyone in Paris, so yeah, just the green metal boxes), these book stalls are a joy, especially when the weather is good and walking by the Seine is one of the most pleasurable activities imaginable on earth. Sure, there is a lot of junk but there is also the rare used book that is a collector’s – or even an avid reader’s – delight. Most of it is in French but I did find some English titles hidden away in between the piles.

These booksellers with their green boxes have been a part of the streetscape near the Seine since the 17th century. Sadly, they have been facing severe competition from the big bookshop chains but they soldier on. Many of them are now reduced to stocking kitschy posters and magnets meant for those annoying tourists (heh!). But under the strict trade regulation by the city council – to preserve this quintessential piece of Paris history – each seller is allowed to have a maximum of four boxes, out of which three are meant only for books. It is reassuring to know these bouquinistes will never suffer the same fate as that of old booksellers of South Mumbai’s fort area.

My own rare find was posters of Asterix – which I could not afford to buy, not by a long way – but the shopkeeper was one of those rare friendly faces who also spoke English and let me photograph them!

Trdelnik: the tongue-twister treat

Trdelnik – say that slowly and be sure to unroll your tongue at the end of it – is a traditional slovakian pastry in the shape of a hollow cylinder. A long rope of sweet dough is rolled on to a thin wooden or metal rod and then baked on an open fire and coated with sugar and cinnamon and nuts (traditionally only walnuts).

I first came across it in the small pretty UNESCO town of Cesky Krumlov. And then everywhere in Prague. The trdelnik shop was one of the highlights of the Easter market at the old town square, calling out to people with that buttery, sugary, pastry smell. Suffice it to say, I was sold – I tried various versions, even one with a coating of chocolate inside. I remember reading or hearing that trdelnik means tasty but I am not sure about that. But who cares about the meaning; it was del.iii.cious.